fragment

finding respite in pattern

All that color and splash
and it’s the blank that draws
me in, some neutral zone
to cool my chapped eyes,
tender a whirligig of sorrow
spinning softly against
the puff of a rasping billow.

Tell me you like the part
of my hair, or the way I
pick up a coffee cup.
Say my wrists have a grace
to flex under the weight
of lost golden bands.

* * *

It’s not much a poem, but it’s something to break the pattern of not-writing. I like all of Carolee’s Portland pictures, but this one spoke up first.

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4 thoughts on “fragment

  1. What lovely lines: “tender a whirligig of sorrow
    spinning softly against
    the puff of a rasping billow.”
    I’m glad you’re writing again – I’m plodding through a colourless peatch, posting willy nilly. Perhaps you’re missing Bigtent, as are the rest of us!

  2. this isn’t a fragment. it’s a real poem. i love this:

    “Tell me you like the part
    of my hair, or the way I
    pick up a coffee cup.
    Say my wrists have a grace”

    yes, i agree with your plea. dear world/lover/husband — give me at least that.

    thank you so much for writing. at our site. and writing. at all.

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